Ann Arbor Review


Ali Znaidi
Silvia Scheibli
Richard Gartee
Deji Adesoye
Shutta Crum
Solomon Musa Haruna
Alan Britt
Fahredin Shehu
Laszlo Slomovits

Robert Nisbet
Gale Acuff
Rekha Valliappan
Fred Wolven
Aneek Chatterjee
Alex Ferde
Michael Lee Johnson
Jennifer Burd
Running Cub
Duane Locke

Helen Gyigya

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2020 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 53 years all together....


Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


Submissions via e-mail:




down the Himalayas ; a trickle of centuries,
pure and clear.  

                                    I remember the groundwater
spread like glass, sunlight pierced--a wraithlike swelling,
waving, subtitled from the mirror image of her.

                                     Wandering in today's
wilderness of cities and streets I can hear the pooling
still--the river stretched, carrying stone and clay                                                                                            

                                    fumed and flinted. Years later
the drone of her labored breathing would fall in a rush of
gingko leaves--one fell swoop, --swoosh! another wave 

                                    the waters I try to hold elderberry
sweet, percolating through my fingers of dust. we wake up
in whelk shell, the river and I, a fearful breathing to unspool.  

                                    I can never forget those violet canopies
of river veining the skies, a hermit crabs webbed walk tinged
with joy; the lilt of rising music fluttering from

                                     a hollowed out coconut found along
the banks; I can't remember where one memory begins, where
the other ends. I live beyond the shadow. The holy river

                                      slices my midriff bare--its journey
diluting into another escarpment, leaping uncapped, pushing  
up the same dun earth each year to froth the first trickle 



You were here once, now you are gone. Silvered to home.
A place. Not even the sound of you
to carry.

Shadow in shadow you flit
room to room, down the years--splintering the ethereal ozone
I sense in air.

I see you in frost, dreams I cannot touch, your descent astral
remote--a feather floating 
in streaks. Will I ever catch you?

hold the substance of your spangled blur
in the hollow folds hidden
inside my hands?


                                       WE TRAVEL BETWEEN                                                                                                                                                      

Scarf-ed,walking into winter, my hands frantic, I'm lost
in memory of distant cashmere goats shedding their rich
double fleece. They un-warm, indestructible as the boulder

mountainside. A distant place. I watch through thousand
windows interlocked in gold. Red gold as the Tuscan sun.
Whence the now? Marigolds no longer stain our hands

saffron red. We do not know when or how winter pours
into spring, when robins' eggs catch blue, when bumble 
bees dart pistils in sun-baked flowers awaiting unborn

beckoning. Somewhere I have glimpsed faint leaf swirls,
autumn molding out of shades of ripening tint, --pushed,
ravished, pummeling my spine in aroma of burnt charcoal.


Rekha Valliappan, Huntington, New York


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